Johnlock - The Importance of Sleeptalking
by JohnlockedElfInRivendell
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in the middle of the night to hear John sleeptalking... and learns some very interesting information about him and his secret fantasies as a result. This plunges him into a future that he had previously told himself would never come to be. Lots and lots of fluff and angst, review and you will receive love. :) ;)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock knew that he wasn't normal; at least he wasn't everyone else's definition of normal. He craved the distractions that cases brought him because he wanted to ignore the loneliness he felt inside. He despised social convention and tried to distance himself from other people as much as possible, because he was awkward, anxious and – it hurt to admit it to himself – _shy_ when around others in social situations. And because Sherlock did not know how to act or what to say in front of other people, he convinced himself that he didn't need friends anyway. Who needs friends, when you've got a brilliant mind to use and develop? But the truth of the matter was, he was stuck in a vicious circle. When Sherlock refused to socialise because of his fear, he eliminated any possibility of making friends and feeling better. And this continued on and on and on….. until he met John, of course.

There was something about John that sparked his interest; something that he hadn't found in other people so far. John seemed to _understand_ him. He didn't run away because he thought Sherlock was a freak, or because he was scared of Sherlock's apparent sociopathy. He didn't talk about Sherlock behind his back or get annoyed by his deductions. John understood that Sherlock was a person, just like anyone else. He understood that deep down, Sherlock wanted to be loved, just like anyone else. In fact, unlike so many others, John seemed to be impressed by Sherlock's deducing skills and would say wonderful things like 'brilliant!' and 'amazing!' after Sherlock had explained to him just _how_ he had managed to solve the unsolvable. When John praised him like this, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a glowing warmth spread through his cheeks. And without even seeing it coming, Sherlock realised that he had fallen hopelessly in love with John Hamish Watson.

But that didn't mean that John would reciprocate his feelings. Often, when Sherlock's thoughts turned to things like this, he felt incredibly inadequate… because why would John, beautiful, tea-drinking, jumper-wearing, army-hardened _John_ , want somebody as strange and cold and inexperienced as Sherlock? He had no experience whatsoever with relationships, because he had never been in one before. He had never expressed his love to anyone before, and had never been kissed before. Surely, John would find him boring, ugly and unworthy of his love. And right he would be, too. Sherlock's already sad eyes filled with tears. As much as he wanted John to fall in love with him, he truly believed it was never going to happen. John would eventually marry one of his many girlfriends, and they would start a family together. That was the way it was going to be, no matter how much Sherlock suffered because of it.

 _So why, then, was he sitting in John's bedroom, listening to the words Sherlock had always longed to hear escape John's mouth?_

Sherlock had woken up in the middle of the night, because of strange noises. As he tiredly blinked the sleep from his eyes, he focused properly on the sound, which was decidedly talking. Male talking. As his exhausted brain tried to work out what it was, he realised where it was coming from. The sounds were coming from John's bedroom. With a start, Sherlock realised that it was John's talking. John was talking in his sleep! He knew he should have just gone back to sleep; he knew that would have been the right thing to do. But curiosity soon got the better of him, and he couldn't just let this opportunity pass by so easily.

So that was what brought Sherlock into John's bedroom that night. He opened the door slowly, carefully, for fear of waking John up. The sight he saw took his breath away. John was curled up cosily in the bed, legs tangled in the bedsheets, breathing coming slowly through his (oh so beautiful) parted lips. His hair was in a messy disarray on top of his head and moonlight was streaming through a small gap in the curtains, illuminating his face. His expression was blissful and calm, indicating pleasant dreams.

As Sherlock sat down beside the bed, he saw John's moonlit form shift slightly and heard a soft sigh escape his lips. Sherlock let the soothing sound wash over him, a peaceful smile forming on his face. He lay back in the chair and relaxed, gazing adoringly at John. _How did you manage to capture my heart so easily, my brave blogger?_ he thought….

Sherlock didn't know how long he had spent in that happy trance, contentedly watching John's sleeping, when suddenly he heard a faint murmur from the figure in the bed. It was barely audible, but Sherlock was convinced he had heard it. Another murmur this time, which was closer to a whisper, found its way to his ears. Sherlock leaned in so that he could hear it clearer.

"Sherlock…." John spoke – so clearly, in fact, that Sherlock jumped and for a second almost believed he had been caught.

"I love you, Sh…'lock…" this caught Sherlock completely off guard, and he stared dumbly at John, eyes wide as saucers, brain not really registering what it had just heard. His stomach was doing somersaults and his head was spinning in all sorts of directions. _Could it really be?... no, John would never…. I'm not good enough for him…._

"Marry me Sherlock… take me away with you…."

Sherlock's heart leapt at those words, and his face flushed a deep shade of crimson. John wanted to marry him… John loved him… why had he never said anything? Sherlock had been oblivious to John's feelings all this time, being adamant that John would never return his affections, trying to suppress his undying love for the man, when he could have been in a relationship with him!

Joyous tears began to roll down Sherlock's pink cheeks, and his heart swelled until it felt like it would burst from his chest. With his heart hammering uncontrollably against his ribcage, Sherlock placed his hands gently on both sides of John's face, caressing him delicately; holding desperately on to this moment that seemed to him as fragile as a butterfly's paper-soft wings, he leant down to capture the sleeping doctor's soft lips with his own in an affectionate kiss.

That was when John's great big eyes flew open in surprise, waking him up from his tantalisingly sweet dream. But John was confused; his eyes were wide open, and he was clearly awake…. however the dream seemed not to have ended. The handsome detective's beautiful, pliable pink lips were still pressed up against his, and John was still enthusiastically responding to the attention. Not that he was complaining, of course! John sighed breathily into Sherlock's kiss, still half asleep, blinking attractively in a dream-like haze.

Then the reality of it hit him with full force.

Sherlock was kissing him!

And John wasn't even fantasizing about it; it was actually real. Completely, fantastically, astonishingly _real._ John's big eyes grew – if possible - even larger and elegant crystal-like droplets began to meander their way down his flushed face.

Sherlock immediately drew back in shock, concern and – was that anguish?

John cocked his head and stared at him bemusedly. Why did he stop?

"John…" the tears began to roll in buckets down the detective's exquisite face.

"John… I'm so, so sorry…. please stop crying… I thought… I thought you wanted me…"

At those words John instantaneously grabbed Sherlock around the neck and brought his face down to meet his in a crushing, desperate, passionate kiss. When they finally broke, panting for air, John spoke in a low and serious voice:

"Sherlock, I will _always_ want you. Forever. Until the day I die, and possibly even after that"

And with that he tenderly pulled Sherlock into his arms, wrapping the blankets tightly around them, enveloping them in a cosy warmth. Sherlock gazed up at John endearingly, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

"…I think I'm in love with you, John," Sherlock whispered longingly, his mouth at John's ear.

"…. I know, idiot" John chuckled thoughtfully, "but I don't return your affections. I love you more,"

And with that, he planted a devoted kiss ardently in Sherlock's thick black curls, and the two fell into a deep, blissful slumber in the arms of each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

*Author's note: This story was originally meant to be a one-shot, but I felt I just had to continue it*

Sherlock woke up in the morning to find that he was resting in the warm embrace of his flatmate – a rather pleasant realisation, if he did say so himself. He took in the amazing smell of the duvet – John's smell. He had to admit he liked the fact that he now smelled like John. Their limbs were twined together in amongst the comfy bedsheets, and John's strong arms were wrapped tightly around Sherlock, protectively even, as if he was worried that Sherlock would be taken away from him.

Here, in this glorious moment, Sherlock felt complete for the first time in his life. He had finally found his missing piece, his John Watson. Here, enveloped in his breath-taking blogger, he was at home. He was safe, protected, loved and incredibly happy. He looked down at John with an adoring smile.

He put his face to John's bed head hair and breathed in deeply. He smelt of honey and tea, warm fires in winter, cinnamon, new books and apples. There was no-one quite like _his John Watson._

Sherlock laughed at himself. He truly was smitten. All these years of believing that feelings were a weakness, that sentiment was a human defect, had done nothing to prevent him falling in love just like any regular idiot. He was now infatuated with John, and found himself thinking that he would do anything for him. Whatever John wanted, Sherlock would give it to him, or die trying.

He detested the fact that he had to get up and leave him, especially since he enjoyed cuddling with him so much, and the smell that was so _John_ was filling his senses…. but it had to be done.

He knew how much his experiments annoyed John, and how much John hated seeing the place in a mess all the time. Which was why he had decided to clean the flat and make John tea before he woke up. John _loved_ tea. In fact, he might even make him dinner as well, while he was at it. And then he would tuck him into bed at night and bring him extra pillows for his comfort. And sing him to sleep… _oh dear. What has this man done to me?_ he thought.

Caressing his cute face once more, Sherlock then attempted to leave the bed, which turned out not to be as easy as it looked. When Sherlock stirred, John mumbled something unintelligible and pulled him closer, latching onto him and preventing his escape. This continued until Sherlock gave in and admitted to himself that he would have to wake John up; something he hadn't wanted to do, seeing as John was sleeping so peacefully.

He gently blew on his face, trying to wake him up without disturbing him too much. John's squinted eyes roamed around until they found Sherlock's face in the half-light, and remembering everything that had happened the night before, John blushed furiously.

"You're too cute when you do that," Sherlock murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

This made John's face get even redder, if that was even possible. Sherlock leaned into John and whispered in his ear:

"Good morning, my heart-stealing blogger. I would ask you to give my heart back to me, given how rude it was of you to take it in the first place; but I don't think that's possible, and I'm in too deep now to want it back. My heart is yours. Do with it what you desire."

He placed sweet kisses along John's jawline.

"I thought you said you were married to your work?"

"… you are my world now, John. And since my work is a part of my world, I would imagine that means that you are both"

*…. TBC! What did you think? Please review J*


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

*Please be aware that this chapter includes triggers for self-harm and depression. If this bothers you, please _do not read it._ (However it does have a comforting, reassuring and fluffy ending) _*_

John just stared at Sherlock in awe. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had thought that Sherlock was asexual, and had no attachment to anyone whatsoever, but apparently he had been incredibly, wonderfully, fantastically wrong.

Here he was, Sherlock in his bed. _His bed._ There had been a time when he thought that having Sherlock anywhere within a metre radius was wishful thinking, and that Sherlock would never in a million years love him back (since John was average, and Sherlock was…well... exceptional. In every meaning of the word.)

Sherlock had always told John that he was 'stupid, boring; annoyingly so, in fact'. Even though he would never admit it to anyone, let alone Sherlock, John always felt a pang of heartbreak and worthlessness rip through his chest at the sting of those cutting words. Usually he would excuse himself in order to promptly remove himself from the situation: ie. by running to his bedroom, locking the door and crying his eyes out because the love of his life thought he was a waste of space. He knew that Sherlock didn't intend to hurt his feelings; he also knew that Sherlock needed to sharpen up on his social skills… but that still didn't prevent John from believing every word that came out of Sherlock's unskilled mouth.

And that was when the self-harm had started.

John wasn't proud of it; it was something that he just needed to do in order to vent his anger, which was always directed at himself. Every time Sherlock would say something less than encouraging, John would etch it into his skin with a knife, so that every time he saw it he would be reminded of how worthless he was, and how much Sherlock despised him, and how it would probably be better for Sherlock if he was dead.

John had truly believed that he _was_ stupid, that he _was_ worthless, and that he didn't deserve to be loved by anyone, least of all by the brilliant detective.

He had always thought that he was a nuisance to Sherlock, and had hated himself every day for it.

It took all the will John could muster to stop his jaw dropping open.

"But… but… how could you love _me?"_

Sherlock looked at John with a quizzical expression.

"Why wouldn't I fall in love with you? I work with you every day, share a flat with you, and have been in many life-threatening situations with you. You've saved my life before, and in return, I've saved yours. It's only logical that I would have feelings for you after all we've been through."

"But I'm an idiotic, dumb, ugly piece of shit… I'm not worthy of your affection… I'm broken, insecure… I'm just average, and you obviously deserve so much better!" At this John burst into tears in front of a stunned and bemused Sherlock, covered his face completely in the sheets and wept.

Sherlock went to gather John in his arms, but John wasn't having any of it. Sherlock's eyes were wide, his caring, worried gaze penetrating his flatmate, his thoughts practically screaming _John, John, John, tell me what's wrong. How could you be so insecure? You're the best person the world has to offer. You're my heart and soul. Surely you know that. What could make you feel so awful about yourself?…_

Then he saw them. John's pyjama sleeves slipped ever so slightly down his forearm and exposed a tiny bit of bare skin, but it was enough for Sherlock to notice the damage John had inflicted on himself. He gasped in shock. John cowered even lower beneath the sheets. Being very gentle and delicate, Sherlock pulled the sleeve down John's arm to expose more skin. And surely enough, when he did this, he saw the horrors: _UGLY. ._ painted in massive crimson letters on John's upper fore-arm. _Waste of space_ scratched out with what seemed to have been a blade just below that. And thousands, no, _millions_ of tiny white scars littering the area around the foul words, marring his soft skin. It made Sherlock sick to the stomach to know that he was the cause of John's torment. He had never, ever meant to cause John any harm or hurt…. nor would he ever. John was his heart. Now it felt like someone had cast a giant spear through his chest, and his heart bled and ached.

One by one, Sherlock bent down to press butterfly kisses to each and every one of the scars on John's arm.

"Shhh…." Sherlock hushed, trying to calm John down. "What on earth could have made you feel so worthless, John? You're wonderful; the world wouldn't be the same without you. _My_ world wouldn't be the same without you. You're irreplaceable, and I don't think I'll ever feel about anyone else the same way I feel about you. You've saved me, John… you've made me a better person. Your social skills complement my lack of such skills…God, I love you. I love the way you know I have feelings, even though I don't like to show them very often. I love how you put up with my endless experiments. I love the way you force me to eat, just because you want to see me healthy. I love how close we've gotten. I love how you alone can cheer me up when I'm sad. I love the way you make tea for me in the morning, the way you put up with my whining, the way your hair looks when you've just woken up, the way you defend me when others say they can't stand me, your amazing medicinal abilities, your heightened awareness of others' feelings, I even love your smell. There are so many things that I love about you John… I just wish you could see them."

John looked up from the duvet he was hiding under. "You really think so?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied warmly. "In fact, I might even go as far as to say that it is I who is unworthy of you. You're such a beautiful, caring, kind, brave person, whereas all I have is my intelligence, and my adoration of you."

"So… you don't think I'm stupid and average? You don't think I'm boring? You don't think I'm a waste of space?"

"Oh John… you're far, far, far from it. Please give no heed to the idiotic accusations I had previously hurled at you. I hate to admit it, but I only said those things because… well… I didn't want you knowing that I loved you. I thought you would feel uncomfortable and distance yourself from me if you knew. And I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing you again…."

It was Sherlock who got teary-eyed this time, a rare thing for someone who is usually so good at putting on a brave, impassive face. John wrapped his arms around him and whispered that he would never in his wildest dreams leave his detective. And if Sherlock was taken from him by some evil ill-fate, John would stop at nothing to be able to return to his side once more.

"…but I never thought that you would pay any attention to those stupid comments. I can't bear the thought that I hurt you so badly…please forgive me. I know it will take time, but please, please, forgive me. I'm not as socially developed as you are, and I'm still learning. Trust me when I say I will do everything in my power to heal the hurt I have inflicted on you, my beautiful blogger. Remember that you are my world. You deserve everything this world has to offer, and more. Please, stop self-deprecating and realise your immense worth… there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. And for the love of god and my own sanity, please stop damaging your exquisite body."

With that Sherlock shyly intertwined their hands under the bedsheets, and gave John a slow, worshiping kiss that seemed to ask for nothing, and offer everything. John broke off gently, his cheeks a delicate pink colour, his breathing loud.

"There is nothing to forgive," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

*Author's note: thank you so much everyone who has read this far :D I didn't think my writing would have such an impact on people, it's really wonderful to know that there's people who are actually reading this ;) Also, it should be noted that it is in fact the 14th of February in this fic. Just sayin' ;)*

John surprised Sherlock by launching himself towards him and latching onto him desperately. He clung to Sherlock as a dying man clings to life and sobbed uncontrollably, his tear-stricken face burrowing into the detective's neck. Sherlock just held him, content to be John's pillar of support for as long as he needed him, stroking his soft, fluffy head of hair, keeping John grounded as his emotions spun rapidly out of control.

John needed to be shown that he was deeply loved; this much was very clear to Sherlock. He needed to be healed of his hurts, renewed, and brought back to reality. He needed to understand that he was essential to Sherlock's existence.

Sherlock picked John up in his arms, still swathed in the blanket, and carried him into the kitchen. John nuzzled into Sherlock's shoulder contentedly. Sherlock didn't know when John's heart-wrenching whimpering had stopped; he absentmindedly brushed a long finger just under John's eyes and over his tear-stained cheeks, wiping the offending rivers away for good, which earned him a weak smile from his doctor. He then placed John carefully on the sofa, encased snuggly in his blanket and surrounded by union jack pillows.

Sherlock proceeded to make tea for himself and John, taking extra care to brew it exactly how John liked it.

John watched curiously from the settee, his mind racing from all that had happened in such a short space of time. He was loved. He still couldn't get his head around the idea, it was so ridiculous. Sherlock must have seen something desirable in him though, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered to wake John up with such a fantastic kiss. Maybe John wasn't actually as repellent as he had previously thought.

John mused on the idea, biting his lower lip slowly out of habit.

Whatever the reason, it filled John with an unusually fuzzy warmth that radiated from his heart and was beginning to bring some colour back to his skin. Did this mean they were boyfriends now? _Wow, boyfriends…_ John thought, his eyes glazed over in bliss as he daydreamed about Sherlock and the implications of their new relationship.

Just then, said detective appeared with a coy smile and a breakfast tray in his hands, his gorgeous black curly hair dangling haphazardly in his face, his pyjama top riding up ever so slightly – which made him all the more attractive. John couldn't help but gaze at him dreamily, letting a soft sigh escape his lips.

Sherlock coughed and suddenly John came to his senses, a bashful blush staining his cheeks as he realised that he had been caught staring. He instinctively half-hid his face in the blanket again for good measure.

Sherlock laughed in that deep baritone voice of his, sat down beside John, and set the tray on his lap.

"Is this all for me?" John whispered disbelievingly. "Oh Sherlock, you really didn't have to go to so much trouble…"

Sherlock was practically bouncing off his seat in excitement and anticipation of John's reaction.

"You like it, though, don't you? I've cut your sandwiches into quarters and left out the crusts, just the way you like them. There's orange juice, milk, broccoli and cheese. Have I left anything out?"

His face was so cute and hopeful looking that John just didn't have the heart to tell him that broccoli, sandwiches and cheese weren't really breakfast foods. But the effort that Sherlock had made was clearly evident, and the care he had taken while preparing it was obvious. It warmed John's heart to think that Sherlock – someone who's probably never attempted to make a meal before in his life – would eagerly delve into the unknown just to please _John_. Butterflies fluttered happily in his stomach.

It wasn't fried eyeballs or stewed hands, though. That was reassuring. John was relieved that it was edible.

He chewed a piece of broccoli, gave Sherlock the thumbs-up and plastered what he hoped was an enthusiastic and eager-looking expression on his face.

Sherlock seemed to buy it.

And suddenly, without any forewarning, Sherlock picked up a sandwich quarter and began to feed John slowly. John moaned irresistibly. It wasn't even the taste of the food that was so delicious; it was the way Sherlock was picking up the food and delicately putting it between John's parted lips; it made John feel important, adored and looked after.

John had never felt so cared for in all of his life. Strong affection for the detective flooded through him, and he surrendered himself to Sherlock's babying. He had to admit to himself that he loved it.

"You're doing it again," Sherlock teased, his voice velvety and soft.

John cocked his head to the side.

"Doing what, may I ask?"

"Your cheeks are overheating, causing that adorable pink glow to form. You're blushing, John."

At this revelation, John Watson turned tomato red.

"Awwwwhhhh…" Sherlock cooed, nibbling John's ear slightly and making him whimper. "You are beautiful, my dear Watson… so beautiful… don't ever change…"

When John had eaten all he was given, Sherlock scooted up to John on the couch, leaned against him and draped the fluffy blanket around them both.

John Hamish Watson's heart was erratic, his breathing hitched. He was lightheaded with happiness.

They began to watch _The Great Gatsby,_ which was John's favourite movie (Sherlock had planned this). He was taken aback by the iridescent colours that graced the screen and the exceptional cinematography used in the making of the film. He had never before understood _why_ his blogger loved the film so much, but now he was captivated by it.

As the enthralling story-line played out in vivid imagery, Sherlock's hand drew lazy yet intricate patterns on John's pale skin, and his bow-shaped lips sought out John's attention. Enveloped in a bubble of comfort, they let themselves be taken away by the film as the miserable English rain spattered against the window in large wet sheets.

John took in a breathy gasp and shuddered as Sherlock's lips explored new territory around his neck. His head was thrown back in ecstasy and his eyes fluttered shut, his mind spinning from all the new exciting experiences that he was having with the detective – experiences that he had told himself he would never get to have, because he didn't deserve them.

"Sherlock," John gasped, "Please don't leave me… at this point I don't think I could bear the pain."

Sherlock's lips found John's nose.

"I'd be an idiot if I left you, John. Do I look like an idiot? Do I look like I would willingly destruct myself?" Sherlock said, seeming almost offended by the thought.

John laughed gaily and held Sherlock tighter, looking down at him. Gazing in wonder at his rock.

After a minute of comfortable silence, Sherlock spoke.

"…John?"

"mmhmm?" John sighed, his eyes closed in bliss.

"Ehm, well… I was wondering… I mean you don't have to, but… err…"

Sherlock's mind palace shrieked at him. ' _Just spit it out, you coward! This is supposed to be romantic!'_

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"…John Hamish Watson, will you be my valentine?"

"Oh Sherlock..." John almost whispered. "I thought you would never ask! Of course!"

John broke his usual routine and didn't cut that night. Nor did he resort to the use of the blade in the days that followed. It was the longest he had ever lasted without self-harming.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys, sorry I haven't updated in a while, been very busy lately. Anyways please let me know in the comments if you want me to continue with this story or just leave it there :)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The days that followed consisted mostly of their casual routine: John making tea in the morning, looking for the milk in the fridge and subsequently finding out that A) they had run out of milk – again – and B) there were now several grotesque, squishy, pinkish white pickled eyeballs floating in jars where the milk ought to be, Sherlock sitting quietly in the living room using his 'I'm concentrating very hard' face while resting his long, clever fingers in a steepled position just under his chin, John finally giving in to temptation and rushing out of the house to hastily buy three more bottles of milk, only to spend fifteen minutes caught in conversation with the shopkeeper who knew him way too well, and returning home to Sherlock's usual greeting: 'you're late.'

Except that there were now a few important additions to their daily routine; this time, Sherlock complained that he had missed John while he was tarrying at the supermarket. There were also several gentle, reassuring touches that passed between them regularly now, almost unconsciously. Sherlock's fingers would linger over John's for a fraction of a second longer when he gave him his tea. John would curl up beside the other man while they were watching tv, resting his head in the hollow of Sherlock's long neck for comfort. Sherlock would press a chaste kiss to John's forehead when he returned home from work, tired from his long day, and envelop him lovingly in his arms, letting the stress and worry seep out of John as he held him.

How had Mycroft so delicately put it? Ah yes, 'domestic bliss'. Although his meaning was purely sarcastic at best and even verged on mocking, John couldn't help but acknowledge that Mycroft was right; it _was_ in fact domestic bliss in every meaning of the phrase.

It was simple and repetitive, yet John loved it.

On a more serious note, the feather-light touches, reassuring kisses and newfound warmth between them had recently taken John's mind off cutting his skin, and was beginning to instil in him a vital sense of self-worth. Granted, it had only planted a little seed of hope in John's brain, however that little seed was beginning to germinate and spread, and John was finding it increasingly easier to ignore the temptation to cut.

One evening, while they were curled up on the couch together, Sherlock received a very unusual call from Molly, of all people. Apparently word had gotten out that Sherlock and John were seeing each other (John mentally cursed Mycroft and his invasive hidden cameras). Molly was adamant that they have dinner together to 'celebrate the new lovebirds,' and even though Sherlock insisted that they were busy, Molly would not relent, and simply said that she was coming over 'this very minute!' with Lestrade, and that they'd better get everything they needed to do out of the way before she arrived. Sherlock's jaw had dropped open and his brain was trying to find the correct words to say when Molly abruptly hung up. Great. This was just great. Sherlock shot John a pleading expression that seemed to cry 'what do we do now?'.

John sharply sprung into action, proceeding to shove what remained of Sherlock's gory, disturbing experiments into cupboards, remove the squishy pickled eyeballs that were staring at him from the fridge and lay out the absurdly expensive tablecloth that John reserved only for visitors. He was just placing a bottle of cheap wine (having had no time to buy anything nicer) on the table when a loud, insistent rapping was heard at the door.

They sighed defeatedly. That would be Molly.

No sooner had Sherlock opened the door than Molly strode in confidently, as if she wasn't effectively breaking in, a reluctant Lestrade in tow. Sherlock stood there gaping, struggling for something conventional to say to them.

Molly hung up her coat in the hallway and turned dramatically to face them.

'We brought Chinese!' she squealed elatedly, in a tone that sounded suspiciously like she was high.

Sherlock looked pointedly at the take-away boxes and nodded mutely, not having yet regained the ability to talk.

It took John a second to adjust to the suddenness of it all, before he managed to stutter out: 'Ehm, lovely… that's wonderful. If you would follow me…'

He awkwardly led them into the kitchen, Lestrade looking apologetic, Molly giggling girlishly and babbling on about how good it was to see them, and how they hadn't seen each other in _ages…_ when truthfully it had merely been a week since their last visit. Molly was always one to dramatize everything.

The dinner was going well enough, as well as unplanned and hastily organised dinners can go really, and before long they were beginning to get into their usual flowing conversation.

Molly complained that the dead bodies at the morgue weren't coming in quite as clean as she'd hoped lately; Sherlock harrumphed at this and stated that there had been a string of bloody murders in London recently that were unfortunately poorly planned by the attacker and therefore too base and below his level to bother investigating, and said that maybe that was the cause of the influx of crimson-coated corpses. John smiled and nodded at Molly sympathetically; Lestrade rolled his eyes playfully and said that Sherlock was too big headed for his own good.

All was running smoothly, until the reason for Molly's visit reared its ugly head.

'So Sherlock, tell me… what's it like being with John? Surely you don't believe that _this_ ,' her eyes fleetingly darted to John, 'could ever match up to what a woman could offer you?'

' _Molly!'_ Lestrade whispered chastisingly at her, a blush rising in his cheeks, embarrassed at the very thought that she, let alone anyone else, would say that.

Molly ignored him, draining her wine glass in one gulp and continuing to dig herself a drunken hole.

"I mean…," whispered Molly seductively, lavishly pooring even more wine into her glass until it was almost overflowing, "just _look_ at him. You could do sooooo much better…."

John lowered his eyes to the tablecloth in front of him and wished for all the world that he could just disappear and pretend he hadn't heard what had been said, because he really couldn't come up with a suitable retort… everything Molly had said so far was true. Tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes, and he fought desperately to keep them concealed.

Molly was presently leering over the table at Sherlock, batting her eyes ridiculously, and shooting death glares at John.

"I'm perfectly happy with my blogger at the moment, thanks" said Sherlock coldly, leaning back slightly in his chair. "And if you're going to insult him like this, I suggest you leave before things get ugly."

Molly's face immediately contorted into a pinched, humiliated expression, and her eyes flashed with anger. She lividly rose from her chair, knocking it over in the process and lost her balance, staggering backwards into the wall.

She pointed at John with one long, crimson-painted finger. "You will regret choosing him one day," she seethed, "and when you come crawling back to me, you will forgive me if I slam the door in your face."

And with that, she stalked out the door haughtily, high-heels clicking on the floor as she went.

Lestrade turned around to John to say he was so sorry for Molly's drunken behaviour, but John had disappeared. He apologised profusely to Sherlock instead, and promptly ran after Molly, saying that he needed to ensure that she didn't get herself into any more trouble.

As soon as the door shut behind Lestrade, Sherlock looked around for John. His eyes flew wildly around the room, searching in vain.

He was gone.

Soon after Molly had let that dreadful comment slip, John all but ran to the bathroom, shutting the door hastily behind him. With no-one to witness his wretched weakness, the tears let themselves loose and he fell to the floor, leaning his back against the door for support.

He couldn't understand his feelings properly; he was upset, of course, but why? Sherlock loved him.

But then again….

John just couldn't get rid of the niggling feeling in his gut that told him profusely that he was worthless. This very moment the darkness was taunting him, teasing the outer edges of his consciousness, trying to find its way into his brain so it could mutate and spread like a virus. He knew, _logically,_ that Sherlock loved him…. however that tiny, evil voice that he had kept hidden in the deepest depths of his brain told him otherwise.

John's brain didn't register what he was doing until he was grasping it, holding that achingly familiar silver blade, pressing it down and tearing apart the soft skin underneath it, crimson rivulets pouring down his arm from the gash in his wrists, and all he could see was blood, blood, _blood._ Distantly, as if he was in another world and not the one where his body was crying out in pain, he gazed down at the wounds, and they seemed to him to be both devastating and calming at the same time, releasing his pent up energy, replacing it with guilt.

Guilt, that he hadn't had the strength to stop himself.

Guilt, that he had betrayed Sherlock's trust in him.


	7. Chapter 7

*Sorry for the unusually short chapter, but I promise there'll be more to come soon ;)*

Sherlock was usually very inexperienced when it came to detecting the emotions of the people around him, but it didn't take a genius to work out that what had transpired was not friendly by anyone's standards.

Before his conscious could process what he was doing, he was sprinting to the bathroom.

He just hoped to God that he had gotten this wrong. He prayed that just for once he could be wrong about _something,_ because it would be the end of his world if he was right.

He flung open the door to the bathroom, his breathing ragged, his heart pulsating frantically; bursting into a sea of red, the smell of iron assailing his nostrils, he wildly took in the horror thrust before him: John was sprawled out on the lino floor of the tiny room, a mess of tangled limbs and burgundy arms, the deep slits in his fine wrists still oozing out obscene quantities of crimson liquid. His jaw was slack, his breathing frighteningly shallow, and his body, oh his beautiful body was mangled like a corpse at the scene of a brutal murder.

The malicious object that had haunted Sherlock's dreams hung limply in his lifeless hand.

Sherlock froze on the spot, his breath caught in his throat, his usually brilliant mind momentarily unable to form a coherent thought. It was an explosion of sickening colour, his darkest nightmare portrayed in awfully vivid imagery.

A tsunami of emotion crashed over Sherlock, threatening to drown him entirely, lifting him up and throwing him against the rocks _again and again and again_ without cessation.

Just before he was dragged under, his mind palace kicked into action.

 _Call the ambulance._

 _Stem the flow._

 _Keep John Watson alive and breathing._

And still his life force continued to stream from him, the cloth that covered his wounds being saturated in mere seconds, and Sherlock was growing desperate.

 _Keep John alive and breathing._

"John…." he said, his lips trembling _,_ "can you hear me? Please stay alive. Please, please, please, John, for me, don't be dead."

The aforementioned tsunami was now ripping and tearing him mercilessly apart.

"You don't understand…. I _need_ you… so damn much, John. _Please,_ don't give up. _Please…."_

 _Keep John alive._

The blood was pumping liberally out of the wounds now, almost as if John's body welcomed the idea of giving up so easily, as if this was a convenient accident. What if it _wasn't_ an accident….

 _Keep John alive._

John's clouded, unfocused eyes stared into space, unseeing, his expression perfectly blank. His face was a mask of death.

 _Alive. Alive. Alive._

The ambulance eventually came, the sirens wailing in the background, but all Sherlock could comprehend was John's limp body spread-eagled in the pool of crimson below him.

 _Keep John alive._

They dragged John away slowly, loading him onto a stretcher and into the back of the van. In a tormented display of grief, Sherlock broke down outside, howling John's name, fat angry tears streaking down his blotchy red face.

 _Keep John alive._

The tires screeched on the gravelly tarmac and the ambulance darted around the corner, taking his blogger away from him for what could be the last time.

 _Alive. Alive. Alive._

 _Keep John Watson alive._


End file.
